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"Get the fuck outta here, Peter. I'm not in the mood."
Mike was resting against his headboard. His, as if anything truly belonged to him. The hotel room was the same as every hotel room they'd been in the entire tour. Mike was exhausted, he was bored, and worst of all, he was lonely. This whole celebrity thing was losing its charm faster than Mike expected.
Peter ignored Mike's request and closed the door. He crossed the room and sat down on the floor in front of the coffee table to roll a joint. "If you didn't want company, you wouldn't have left the door cracked."
Mike rolled his eyes and sat up, telling himself he was annoyed. Maybe he really was — he was never too sure. But Peter had grass, and Mike wouldn't mind if Peter decided he wanted to share. Peter did want to share. It was the entire reason he'd invited himself in, to reconnect with Mike somehow. He wanted to try, at least. He wanted to have just one night with only Mike, however he could.
"Wanna join me down here, or should I join you over there?" Peter asked, gesturing to the bed.
Mike thought for a moment. "I'm comfortable."
Peter nodded and stood up, grabbing the ashtray from the table and bringing it over with him. He perched on the edge of the bed and lit up, taking a couple hits before passing the joint to Mike. Mike's lips tilted into what may have been a smirk, but looked more like a sneer, before taking his own hit. They passed it back and forth until it was dead, letting the heavy smoke fill the room and settle over their bodies. Mike laid back against the headboard and closed his eyes.
"Man, I'm tired of bein' on the road."
"Tell me about it," Peter griped. "I can't remember the last time I had a good night's sleep."
"I miss Phyllis, man. I know I'm lousy to her, but I still miss her. And Christian."
"We'll be home soon enough. I don't know, I'm really bummed about the whole thing. I'm trying to appreciate that we're here playing music, but…"
"Yeah. I get it." Boy, did Mike get it. They were tired, overworked, and barely doing what they wanted to be. Sure, they were playing music, and he couldn't spit in the face of fame and fortune, but that didn't mean he was happy about the situation.
Peter sniffed and coughed into his arm, then set the ashtray on Mike's nightstand. It would defeat the purpose of using one at all if he spilled ashes all over the bed while hacking up a lung. Mike opened one eye to see the corners of Peter's own prickling with tears. Peter gave a funny smile. "I think I just lost a bronchiole."
"Sounded like it hurt."
Peter nodded and stretched out on the bed. Mike looked away.
"Sometimes I think it was a mistake to audition," Peter mused.
"Think you'd be doin' better as a dishwasher?" It made Mike angry. He didn't know why.
"I think I might be happier if I was. Nobody breathing down my neck and telling me I'm useless all the time."
Mike scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Man, nobody tells you that."
"Bob does."
"No, he doesn't."
Peter's face remained perfectly neutral, his voice level. Mike couldn't stand it. "Just because you have a half-decent working relationship with him doesn't mean I do. He really just…hates me."
Mike knew Bob was tough to get along with, and he knew Peter had his difficulties with the guy, but he'd never heard Bob actually say anything quite that harsh. He didn't want to admit to himself that Peter probably wasn't lying or misinterpreting. He said the only thing he could think, knowing it wouldn't help. "You're not useless, man."
"Well, I know I'm not, but that doesn't mean it's pleasant to hear. Really cuts down on a guy's self worth, you know."
Mike snorted. He couldn't help it. "Peter, you and low self worth don't know the meaning of each other. You think you're God's gift to the planet."
A heavy, tense silence filled the room. Peter felt like he could scream. Why did everyone always have to cut him down, assume they knew how he felt? Shouldn't Mike understand, more than anyone?
"I'll talk to Bob."
"Don't bother," Peter muttered bitterly.
They sat in silence for a few more moments, letting it wash over them. Neither of them could figure out what to say. It was Mike's hiss of pain when he moved his shoulder that broke the quiet.
Peter, despite his best wishes, was concerned by the loud popping sound. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I just fucked it up a couple shows back. It caught funny just now."
Peter thought for a moment. "I can give you a massage, you know. Just rub your shoulder."
Mike immediately rejected the notion. Phyllis or another girl giving him a massage was one thing, but he wasn't going to let another man do it, and he certainly wasn't going to let Peter do it. That would be crossing a line far beyond what Mike was comfortable with.
Peter just shrugged. "Your loss."
Mike bit his lip. His shoulder really did hurt, and Peter was offering. Maybe he was just thinking too much of it on account of being high. Peter wasn't being untoward, he was being courteous in that open, hippie-dippie way he tended to be these days. Mike's shoulder clicked again and he finally relented.
"Alright, fine. I'll take you up on it."
Peter smiled and sat up, gesturing for Mike to lean forward. "This'll be easier if I sit behind you. Got any lotion or anything?"
"I have some oil in my bag."
Peter raised an eyebrow but stood up and dug through Mike's suitcase until he found what he was looking for. He couldn't say he was surprised, considering the care Mike took into his appearance and his affinity for women's beauty products, but he was certainly amused by the presence of an Avon bottle among Mike's things.
"Take your shirt off and scoot up." Peter settled in behind Mike and poured a small amount of oil into his palm. He rubbed his hands together to warm it before placing his hands on the tense muscle of Mike's right shoulder. Mike took a sharp breath as Peter found the problem right away.
"You have a horrible knot here."
"Yeah, it comes and goes."
Peter hummed and worked his fingers gently but precisely. Mike winced as he hit a particularly tender spot.
"Your whole back is tense, Mike. I can just give you a real massage if it's bothering you."
Mike closed his eyes. The thought of Peter touching even more of him lit his skin on fire. But he was sore, and he was stoned, and against his better judgement, he wanted Peter to touch him. He was lonely, and Peter was a decent enough balm for the deep melancholy he felt in the moment.
"Sure."
"Lay down."
Mike obeyed and immediately felt vulnerable. Peter had to straddle him to give him a massage, and he started to consider their position in a much different context. Mike's face was hot as Peter poured more oil into his hands and began to rub his back. Peter's touch was firm — clearly, he did this a lot. Mike's breath hitched as Peter dug into a spot on his lower back.
Peter, to his credit, didn't comment on anything. He worked in silence, soothing the dull aches and sharp pains Mike had ignored since leaving home. Mike groaned whenever Peter hit a particularly tense spot, but he tried to keep his noise to a minimum. He didn't want Peter to think he was enjoying this too much.
The problem was that Mike was enjoying it, far too much. Maybe because he was lonely or maybe because he was high, Mike reveled in Peter's attention. It was nice having someone touch him in such a mundane way. He tried not to think it was intimate, but the more he rejected the notion, the deeper it implanted itself. This was intimate, for better or worse, and Mike didn't want it to end, but he also couldn't wait for it to be over. It was all too much.
"All good?" Peter asked after what felt like a lifetime.
"Yeah." Mike's voice was hoarse and unsteady. He wasn't good, not at all, but he wasn't going to tell Peter that. Gone were the days that he could tell Peter anything.
"I can keep going if you want me to."
Mike shook his head the best he could, rubbing his face across the blanket and feeling the dread of being known creep in. "It's fine."
He didn't move, even when Peter shifted off of him. Peter studied the expanse of Mike's back and smiled to himself. "Mike, do you want me to keep going?"
Mike didn't say anything, and he didn't move. Peter took it as a yes.
"You know, if you take your jeans off, I can get your legs."
"You're not touchin' my legs."
"I was just offering. I'm sure your calves are sore."
Mike sighed. "Everything's sore."
Peter hummed and nodded. "Come on, take 'em off."
Mike huffed and turned over, unbuttoning his jeans and shifting them over his hips before throwing them to the floor. He was half-hard. Peter chose not to bring any attention to it, and Mike flipped back over as quickly as he could.
Peter started with Mike's calves, rubbing gentle circles and adjusting the pressure when Mike hissed or twitched. It seemed as if Mike's entire body was made up of knotted muscle. Mike groaned and clenched his fingers in the sheets as Peter worked a particularly tense section just below the knee.
"Sorry."
"It's fine," Mike spat through gritted teeth.
Peter hummed and softened his touch. He was amazed that Mike was even letting him do this, and he didn't want to push his luck. He tentatively moved even higher, his fingers gracing the warm skin of Mike's thigh. Mike grunted, but he didn't flinch away, so Peter applied more pressure.
"You know, if any of this is ever bothering you while we're on the road, you can ask me to do this for you."
"Oh, sure, I could've just asked you for a rubdown. Come on, man."
Peter clicked his tongue. "I'm serious, Mike. I'm amazed you're still standing with all these knots. You shouldn't let it get this bad."
"Yeah, well…alright, I guess."
By the time Peter's hands were too tired to continue, Mike had practically become one with the mattress. He was almost asleep, drooling onto the sheet, only stirred by Peter pulling away.
"That was nice."
Peter grinned to himself and shifted towards the edge of the bed. "I'll let you sleep."
"Stay," Mike mumbled.
Peter froze and took him in. Mike was probably unaware he even made the offer, but Peter selfishly wanted him to mean it. "You sure?"
"Turn the light off."
"Bossy." Peter did it anyway. He didn't think about the fact that he didn't have any clothes in Mike's room, or that Mike would probably be angry with him in the morning. Peter just wanted one night with him, however he could have him.
Soft, pale moonlight was bathing the room when Peter woke up, still in his day clothes. Mike was snoring, and Peter felt like he should have been more annoyed by that than he was. He actually thought it was endearing. He stared at the ceiling, willing himself not to succumb to the turmoil deep inside himself. If he looked over at Mike, it would make everything more real. The rare moment of vulnerability Mike had allowed himself earlier would surely come back to bite Peter, as it always did. Mike usually didn't allow himself the small comforts Peter would offer, and when he did, it ended with a blow-up.
If Peter could just stare at the ceiling, avoid looking at Mike altogether, the morning's cruel rejection wouldn't hurt so bad.
Mike's breathing changed, and Peter bit his lip. Maybe he could sneak out, let Mike think it was all a dream. He didn't want that, though. He wanted Mike to want his company, to acknowledge that they at least used to get along, even if Mike couldn't stand him now. He missed how close they were when they first started this whole thing.
"Mm, where…"
Peter willed himself to finally look over, and he couldn't stop the smile that lit across his face as Mike rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Shh, go back to sleep."
"Peter?"
"Yeah?"
"What are you doin' here?" Mike sounded genuinely confused.
Peter's smile fell and he looked back to the ceiling. "You asked me to stay. So I stayed."
"Oh." Mike yawned again and sat up, running a hand through his hair. "What time is it?"
"No idea. Late. Early. However you wanna look at it."
"You okay?"
Peter closed his eyes. Like Mike gave a shit. "Perfectly fine."
"Okay." Mike yawned again and rolled out of bed, padding softly to the bathroom. Peter kept his eyes shut, trying not to let his sour mood taint this transient peace. He heard the toilet flush and the tap run, and refused to look anywhere but the inside of his own eyelids.
"You stayin'?"
"If you want me to. I can go." Peter couldn't keep his voice from cracking. He hoped to god that Mike would chalk it up to being tired.
"You can stay. I don't care." Mike crawled back into bed and wrapped the blanket around himself. Peter finally opened his eyes, and stars danced across his vision.
"You sure?"
"Jesus, Peter, I don't care. Stay or don't, but shut up and let me go back to sleep."
Peter sniffed and nodded. He didn't move an inch. Mike huffed and rolled onto his back.
"What did it feel like? With uh, with that chick?"
"What?"
"You know…the crazy chick you were talkin' about the other day."
Peter blinked. He barely even remembered telling anyone, but one of the girls he'd been seeing asked if she could put her fingers inside of him. He let her, with only some hesitation, after realizing she was serious. "Oh. Um, it felt…strange, at first. And then it was…I don't know how to describe it. You know how like, with girls, there's a couple spots that really get them worked up? It was probably like how that feels, but like…connected. To, well, you know."
Mike was silent, contemplative. Peter worried at the skin inside of his cheek.
"I don't really know what you mean by connected."
"I came all over myself, Mike. That's what I mean."
"Oh."
Neither of them spoke for a while — Peter too frail and Mike too…whatever. Peter was almost sure Mike had fallen back asleep by the time he actually said anything else.
"I wonder if that's why queers do it."
"What?" Peter was offended, not that Mike would care to even notice.
"Just…there's probably not a whole lotta girls out there that wanna do all that."
Peter sighed and shook his head. "I really doubt that's why, Mike."
"Well, why do you think they do it, then?"
Peter bit his lip. What could he even say without incriminating himself? Mike was waiting for an answer, and not very patiently.
"I think w—they…do it because other animal species do it, and what's the human race? It's biological. It's…it's social. It's…well, I don't really know, Mike. I've never thought about it much."
"You sound like you have."
"Well, why are you asking, huh? Why the sudden interest?" Peter couldn't help the venom lacing his tone. He tried, he really tried, but Mike's line of questioning was getting too close for comfort.
Mike was quiet when he answered, almost timid. "I don't know."
"Neither do I." Peter crossed his arms across his chest and tapped his collarbones, a self-soothing habit he'd had since childhood.
"Why do you do that?"
"I thought you wanted me to shut up so you could sleep."
Mike sat up. "Well, I can't fuckin' sleep, so forgive me if I'm tryin' to make conversation."
Peter squeezed his eyes shut. "I think people are more complicated than just homo- or heterosexual. And I think that people who you'd label as queers are that way because there's something innate in them that can't be boiled down to just sex. That's what I think."
"Hey, now, I don't mean anything by callin' 'em that, I just don't know what else to call 'em."
"It means something to them when you call them that."
"Like what I say makes a difference. I'm not makin' life hard on 'em."
Peter sighed and sat up. "I'm going back to my room."
"Now, just hold on a minute. Where do you get off runnin' away?"
"Mike, I don't wanna talk about this."
"I do! I need to— whatever. Just…get." Mike picked at the corner of the blanket and took a deep, shaky breath. Peter looked at him, really looked at him, and in the soft light of the moon, he saw a scared little boy. It rattled him.
"Mike…what's going on?"
Mike shook his head. "Nope. Get out."
"Look, I'll talk about it if you stop calling people queers."
"Well, I don't wanna talk about it anymore."
Peter rolled his eyes. "You're really impossible, you know that? Wanna know why it bothers me so much? It bothers me because back in the Village, I knew quite a few queers and gained a bit of a reputation as one myself. I've…I've been with guys, Mike." Peter's voice grew softer at his own admission. He didn't want to tell him, but what else could he do? Maybe Mike would be cruel about it, but at the very least, Peter could be honest.
Mike didn't say anything. He stared, a faraway look in his eyes that told Peter more than enough. Mike wasn't disgusted by Peter, or frightened of having him in his bed. He was confused.
"Earth to Nesmith?"
Mike shook his head and closed his eyes, rolling his lips inward. He wasn't going to speak. Peter really couldn't do this anymore.
"Whatever. Whatever, man. You know, I don't understand your hang-ups." Peter got out of bed and moved towards the door, agitated. "I don't know where you get off making me talk about this shit and then ignoring me when you get a real answer. It's a sick joke, Mike. It really is."
Peter couldn't bring himself to open the door. He wasn't finished. "You know, when we started this whole thing, you were really groovy. I've made a lot of excuses to myself about how you've been towards me these last few months, but this is it, man. This is…this is just cruel."
"I didn't make you tell me, Peter. You came to that decision on your own."
"Yeah, well the least you could do is say 'Oh, it's alright. I won't spread the word that you're a fag, your secret's safe with me.' But no, you leave me sitting here in agony, worried you're gonna spill to the guys or, heaven forbid, Bob."
"Jesus, you think I'd do that? Man, what the fuck's wrong with you?"
"I don't know, Mike! I don't know who you are anymore! You hate me enough that I wouldn't put it past you."
Peter's hand flew to his mouth and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He never, never wanted Mike to know that he thought that. It was enough to keep him awake some nights, wondering what went wrong. Wondering what it was about their situation that made Mike throw him under the bus all the time, treating him like he didn't matter. But if Peter didn't voice it, it wasn't real. If he didn't voice it, it meant there was still a chance that Mike actually did care.
Peter couldn't even look at Mike. He couldn't stay, but he didn't know if he could leave. He reached for the knob and turned it.
"Peter."
Peter froze. He would take even the smallest bit of reassurance.
"Peter, I'm not gonna tell anybody. And I don't hate you."
Peter nodded. He still couldn't bring himself to open the door and leave.
Mike sighed. "Get back over here and let's…let's hash this out."
Peter couldn't move. He was sure if he took even one step, he'd be sick. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, and Mike was looking at him, really looking, with an expression Peter couldn't place.
"Jesus, Peter. Come on."
Peter willed himself away from the door, shaking. He took his spot on the bed, unable to focus on anything other than a deep sense of unease. Mike looked him up and down.
"Why on earth do you think I hate you?"
Peter couldn't help it. He laughed. He laughed until it turned into something else, a strangled cry that had been building for quite some time, if he was being honest with himself. He shook his head, covering his mouth and trying not to sob. Mike watched him. He didn't know what else to do.
Peter took a deep breath and wiped his eyes. "Where do I even begin? You just…you throw me under the bus constantly, you insult my musicality, you act like I'm dirt under your heel, Mike. How else am I supposed to take that?"
Mike shrugged, looking down. "Well, I don't hate you."
"But you don't like me the way you used to. If you ever did."
"I did. I, Peter, I mean, come on. Where the hell's all this coming from, anyway?"
Peter sighed and buried his head in his hands. "You don't get it, Mike. I went from thinking you were my best friend to…whatever this even is. I can't stop thinking that I'm just dragging everything down, that I'm useless, a fuck-up. You're the only one who understands how horrible this entire thing is for me, and you're making it worse by cozying up to everyone and leaving me in the dust."
"You can cozy up to them, Peter."
"No, I can't! They hate me, they all do. Bob especially. And you can't even see it." Peter couldn't stop shaking. He couldn't stop the flow of tears or the pain in his voice or the anger, the deep and dull anger, that flowed through his veins.
And Mike could do nothing but sit there and take it, offering empty platitudes. He simply wasn't good at stuff like this. "I don't want you to feel bad."
"Well, I do. There's no helping it, Mike."
"I mean, I just…I really can talk to Bob for you."
"No. Get it through your head that the problem isn't just the way Bob treats me. It's the way you treat me. Jesus, you're like his pet or something."
"I'm not his fuckin' pet."
"You are," Peter spat. He felt like he'd never be able to breathe again, like everything was truly crumbling around him. It was hard to stick up for himself, it made him feel sick and anxious, but he was so angry and frustrated that he couldn't help but lay into Mike even more. "You're like a little dog at his heel, Mike. Doing anything and everything he says just for a taste of creative control that he's never going to give you. Making everyone else feel like shit while you do it, too. You're a real prince, Mike. A real fuckin' prince."
Mike wrung his hands. He should explode. He should storm out of the room, go punch a hole in the wall and make the record label pay for it. He should knock Peter down a peg, tell him what for. He couldn't do any of that. He was frozen, because he knew that Peter was right. He hated how right he was.
"You done?"
Peter scoffed and wiped his eyes. "Fuck you. God, you're such an asshole."
"You're still here."
"Against all better judgement, I'm still here. Maybe I won't be tomorrow, though. Ever think of that?"
Mike's heart stopped. "What the fuck does that mean?"
"Nothing. Don't…just forget it." Peter sounded defeated. He sounded really depressed. He sounded like Mike when he was too many drinks deep.
"You're not gonna jump out the window, right?" Mike had to make a joke. He didn't know what else to do.
"Please," Peter huffed, rolling his eyes. "You think I'd inconvenience the cleaning crew? Make them deal with all that blood?"
"Well…what…I mean, Peter, you don't really mean it."
Peter just sneered and tucked his knees to his chin. "Everyone loves to assume things. What I mean, what I don't mean. How I feel."
Mike felt like a vessel lost at sea. He'd never actually taken the time to consider that Peter was struggling, really struggling, just as much as he was. He didn't bother. Why would he?
"I'm not going to. It wouldn't solve anything."
That didn't make Mike feel any better. "Just stay here. Let me keep an eye on you."
"It's amazing that suddenly you care. It's really something, Mike."
They fell into another round of bitter silence. What was there to say? Peter kept making little tapping motions, this time on his shins. Mike had an awful moment where he wanted to reach for Peter's hands, to hold them in his own and offer some level of comfort that he'd never be able to provide. It made him feel sick to his stomach.
Peter stood up abruptly and went to the window, crossing his arms and staring at the empty street below. "All I wanted was to be a musician."
"You are a musician."
"You know as well as I do that we're the only ones who think that."
Mike couldn't refute it. He wanted to, but he wouldn't believe himself if he tried. Like everything else, he let it hang in the air. He didn't know why he wasn't capable of making things better. He didn't know why he had to demolish instead of renovate, start from scratch instead of fixing things in place. He didn't know why. He didn't want to know why.
Peter turned to look at him. "I don't want you to talk to Bob for me because it won't fix anything. He'll do what he always does and make fun of me for needing someone else to fight my battles. I'd rather just put up with it than have you make it worse."
"You think I make everything worse, don't you?"
"I think you…I think you don't try to make things worse. But you rarely make them better."
Mike jerked his head. He couldn't argue. Peter just sighed and wiped his palm across his face. "I hate this. I…Mike, I hate this. I don't understand what I did—" Peter's voice cracked. He swallowed and cleared his throat before continuing. "I don't…what happened? Why is it like this? Why…what did I do to make you…you say you don't hate me, but I don't think that's true. It doesn't feel like it's true."
Mike remained silent. There was nothing he could say that would make it better, nothing to soothe or console, so there was no reason to say anything at all. He didn't know why he took it out on Peter. It was easy, maybe, or it gave him a sense of power he didn't feel otherwise. But he didn't know why he couldn't just do the hard thing and treat Peter the way he used to.
"Is it…I mean, did I actually do something? Or are you just…really that cruel? You just don't want me? My friendship, I mean. You don't…you don't want that anymore?"
Mike rolled his eyes, refusing to take the bait. It had to be bait. Peter wanted to get a rise out of him, to make him feel morally inferior. He knew it. What else could it be?
Peter scoffed and turned back to the window. "If I were a lesser person, I'd have inconvenienced a cleaning crew by now."
"You don't mean that, Peter."
"Would you stop assuming what I really mean? Are you capable of that, Michael? Or is everything just a big fucking joke to you?"
"Well, how the fuck else am I supposed to take it?" Mike yelled. He didn't know why he was yelling. He didn't want to yell. For starters, it was too late at night. "You wanna off yourself? Join the fuckin' club, Peter! But neither of us are ever gonna do it, so what's the point in even talkin' about it?"
"What?" Peter sounded haunted. He felt haunted. "What do you— what's the point? The point is getting it off your chest so you don't actually go through with it, Mike! Jesus Christ, you seriously think there's no point in talking about how you feel?"
Mike snapped his jaw shut. He snapped it shut and he turned around and he crossed his arms and he stared at the floor like a scolded child. It was Peter's turn to roll his eyes.
"You know, I'm really sorry for you sometimes. I know you hate that, but it must really blow to be trapped in your own mind so bad that you think wanting to die doesn't even matter."
Mike flinched, but said nothing. It was all a trap. He wouldn't say anything else to Peter for the rest of the night. The rest of all time, if he could help it.
"Does Phyllis know you feel that way? Or is it like everything else, and she has an idea, but you'll never bring it up and she'll never ask because it'll turn into an argument and you'll make her cry?"
"Don't fuckin' talk about my wife, Peter."
"She and I are still friends, you know. Just because you stopped giving a shit about me doesn't mean she did. Sometimes I think I see your kid more than you do."
"Shut up, Peter!" Mike slammed his fist on the nightstand, ignoring the burst of pain that shot through his fingers, halfway up his arm. "Don't fuckin' talk about my family! You have no idea what it's like to—"
"To what? To feel trapped, to feel isolated? To feel like nobody close to you understands? You think I have no idea? God, you really are just—"
"Oh come on, say it! Don't hold back, now. What am I? Huh? Mr. High and Mighty, what am I?"
"You're petulant. You're selfish. You're egomaniacal! You're an asshole, Michael. You make everyone around you miserable."
"Sounds like you hate me, not the other way around."
"God, I wish I could hate you. My life would be a hell of a lot easier if I did."
"Self pity doesn't look good on you, Peter."
"No, but it looks great on you. Sometimes I think you're better at hating yourself than you are at playing the guitar."
"Fuck you, Peter."
Peter laughed, not as hysterically as earlier, but enough to be alarming. He almost sounded crazed. "Sometimes I wonder if that's what this is about."
The world stopped. Mike had a ringing in his ears that was more than just tinnitus. It was white-hot rage, completely filling his body and invading every sense. He threw a pillow, hitting Peter square on the head. Peter clenched his jaw and steadied himself.
"Are you done?"
Mike threw another pillow. Peter let it hit him. "Mike, if you do that again, I don't think you'll like the result."
Mike threw the last pillow. Peter walked towards him. Mike was frozen, actually scared of what he would do. He knew that if Peter really wanted to, he could physically overpower him. He could hurt him with more than words. He probably wouldn't.
Peter grabbed Mike's shoulders, holding them tightly with shaking hands, before wrestling him to the floor. Mike struggled, thrashing wildly as Peter finally managed to pin him down.
"Let go of me, fuckin', you motherfucker, let go of me."
"Say you're sorry first." Peter knew he couldn't say it. Knew he wouldn't, at the very least. Mike stared up defiantly. Peter shifted, only slightly, and Mike's defiance morphed into sheer terror as they realized in tandem that he was rock hard.
"So that is what this is about."
"Shut. Up." Mike tried to sound threatening. His voice was shaking far too much for Peter to be intimidated.
"You don't scare me, Michael. Say you're sorry and I'll let you up."
"Bite me."
Peter didn't think. He just…did it, like it was an actual request and not an attempt at regaining control of the situation. It didn't matter. Mike moaned out loud as soon as Peter's mouth graced his skin.
"You want this?"
Mike swallowed. He didn't speak. Peter didn't move.
"Mike, do you want this?"
Slowly, Mike nodded. He refused to meet Peter's eyes. Peter huffed and shifted again, so that his thigh was situated in between Mike's legs. "You could have said so earlier. Before all this."
"You know I couldn't."
"He speaks!" Peter rolled his eyes and cupped Mike's jaw, more forcefully than he needed to. Mike wouldn't look at him. He needed Mike to look at him. "You need to understand that I'm fully incapable of hating you, Mike."
"Doesn't look that way from my angle," Mike spat. "Callin' me names, throwin' me to the floor."
"You threw pillows at me," Peter said bluntly. "You implied that my feelings don't matter. You treat me like shit, Mike. I'm entitled to call you a name here and there."
"I don't treat you that bad."
Peter chuckled and shook his head. He didn't ease his grip. "You think that, don't you? You really do. That's cute."
"Shut up."
Peter, still pinning him down, still grabbing his jaw, leaned forward to kiss him. Mike couldn't resist, even though he wanted to. He wanted to want to. He didn't even realize that he was rutting against Peter's leg like a dog until Peter pulled away.
"Eager?"
"I'm…shut up."
Peter smirked and let up, softening his touch. "Wanna see what that chick was on about?"
Mike just stared, wide-eyed and aroused and frightened. Peter moved off of him. Mike wanted to protest his departure. He didn't. Peter grabbed the forgotten bottle of body oil and a pillow, setting both down beside Mike before settling back on top of him, pinning his arms above his head.
"Just in case you want to."
"I, what, it…"
"Use your words, Mike," Peter ordered. Ordered. Mike shuddered and closed his eyes.
"Does it hurt?"
"Shouldn't. I'll make sure it doesn't."
"Does…how…I—"
Peter took Mike's hand in his own, much more tenderly than the heated exchange only moments before. He wanted this. He hoped Mike did, too. "Words, baby," he muttered.
Mike let out a tiny noise — maybe a gasp, maybe a sigh, Peter wasn't sure — and tried to hide his face in his arm. He did his best, but Peter wouldn't let him. Mike was red in the face.
"Do you like it when I call you baby?" Peter asked softly. He wasn't teasing. He almost sounded sad.
"You shouldn't."
"Do you like it?"
Mike couldn't answer. His heart was pounding in his chest, it felt impossible to breathe, and all that separated his cock from Peter's jeans was a thin layer of cotton. He was embarrassed to think that he yelled at Peter in nothing but his boxers.
"Mike, just…nod or shake your head or something. I'd like it better if you would actually fucking talk to me, but—"
Mike nodded. Peter gave a pained smile and nodded back. "Okay."
Peter felt like everything inside of him was breaking. One night, he'd told himself. Just one night with Mike, however he could have him. But he didn't think he could ever have him like this, pliant and submissive and letting Peter sweet talk him. Peter never thought he'd be in a situation with them both hard on the floor, a bottle of oil beside them, and sex permeating every inch of the room.
"Lift your hips."
Mike obeyed, furrowing his brow as Peter removed his boxers, then slid the pillow underneath the small of his back. "Comfortable?"
Mike nodded. Peter smiled more genuinely and stroked Mike's hipbone with his thumb. "Never thought I'd get to see you like this."
"You thought about it?"
"I told you I couldn't hate you." Peter's voice cracked, ruining the joke. Everything felt ruined. If it wasn't already, it was going to be.
"You…you don't mean you—"
"Let's just…let's not talk about it. No strings."
"Just this once. I'm not like you."
"Sure." Peter didn't believe him. He was about to finger him, for Christ's sake. But he chose to pretend. "I get it."
Peter reached for the bottle, popping open the cap and getting ready to drip oil onto his fingers for the second time that night, when Mike stopped him.
"What about you?"
Peter looked down. He was still fully clothed. He couldn't bring himself to undress, because that meant fucking Mike, and that meant strings even if it didn't. He couldn't bring himself to go all the way, because he'd never stop wanting to do it again. "You're not like me, so don't worry about me."
The words felt acrid in his chest. He wished to God that he could hate Mike, even just a little bit. He poured the oil into his hand, warming it as much as he could before lowering his hand to Mike's cock and stroking with a firm grip.
Mike hissed and twitched, sensitive and overwhelmed and pent up. Peter took the hint, loosening his grasp and taking a more leisurely approach. Mike's eyes were squeezed shut when Peter decided it was time, poured more oil on his fingers, and brushed his thumb against Mike's entrance.
Mike flinched, but he didn't open his eyes. He could barely breathe as Peter teased the rim, finally breaching him with just the tip of his index and holding it there, waiting. Mike nodded. Peter went further.
Peter was careful, meticulous. Detached, almost. If he let himself feel anything, he'd fall. He was supremely aware that falling for Mike would be the dumbest possible thing he could do. He also knew that it was already too late. Despite everything he'd told himself, everything he'd done to convince himself that it was a terrible idea, he'd fallen for Mike the day he took him into his home. The day he'd told Peter that he could stay with him and Phyllis and little Christian, sweet baby Christian who couldn't even talk yet but reached for Peter sometimes, the way he should have been reaching for Mike. Peter broke his own heart the day he'd said yes to the offer without even realizing it.
They were both silent, save for Mike's heavy breaths and occasional soft groans, deep within his chest. Peter added more lube, another finger. If he didn't let himself enjoy it, he wouldn't miss it. If he didn't acknowledge it, it wasn't real. The elephant in the room was still smaller than the room, wasn't it?
"Peter," Mike finally said, after Peter had brushed against his prostate. "Do that again."
Peter obliged, ever the fool. He'd give anything to hate Mike. He'd give anything to feel like he wasn't ripping his own heart out on a hotel room floor. He'd give anything to go back to that tiny little apartment on the hillside.
Peter wasn't even sure if he was hard anymore, but Mike was, and he was finally making sounds, sweet little hums of pleasure that made Peter wish more than anything that they weren't only doing this once. Peter swallowed and focused. He couldn't wallow. If he wallowed, Mike would eventually notice.
Mike's orgasm took them both by surprise. Some of it landed on Peter's cheek, and he swiped it away with his unoccupied hand, bringing it to his mouth without a second thought. Mike looked up at him with ruddy cheeks and a glazed expression. His eyes were glassy. Peter smiled tightly and pulled out, wiping his hand on his jeans.
"All good?"
Mike nodded. Peter sat still for a moment, trying to decide what he should do. Mike decided for him.
"You should…you should go back to your room, Peter."
No strings, Peter reminded himself. If he disobeyed, he'd be overstaying his welcome. He'd only be making things worse for himself. "Yeah. You'll be okay?"
"Just go," Mike said. He didn't sound okay. He probably wasn't.
Peter nodded and stood on shaky legs, taking one last glance at Mike's naked body before opening and shutting the door behind him. He wandered the hallway in a daze, certain no time had passed between leaving his own room and returning to it. He took a shower. He took a shower and he didn't think about Mike and he didn't take himself in his hand the way he probably would have any other night. He wore pajamas to bed. He never wore pajamas to bed, but he felt childish. Foolish. He wished someone would hold him.
He didn't sleep a wink. Mike pretended not to notice the tear tracks in the morning.